


qui vivra verra

by SearchingforSerendipity



Category: Now You See Me (Movies)
Genre: alma is part of the eye au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:12:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7312717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SearchingforSerendipity/pseuds/SearchingforSerendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a child Alma's grandmère would ask her riddles, with answers that could come from folklore and mythology and metallurgy, literature and chemistry. It was how she learned to think, to find a connection between D7 and A1.</p><p>It was the first type of magic she was acquainted with, but not the last one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	qui vivra verra

In ancient languages, languages of spells and long worded oaths, Alma means soul. The spirit within, the one that touches the without- greater than the body, contained by the earth until the time of death. Her mother called her so for her grandmère, and the spirited baby she had been, and it wasn't destiny, probably not, but Alma never stops liking her name, second hand as it was.

In her family, second hand meant third hand meant hundredth hand meant legacy. Meant treasure, meant secret. Her grandmère taught her that.

She learned a great deal from her grandmère. They were the same, the two Almas, in their interests and perspectives. There was never a mystery they didn't find a way around. The games they played were her favorites, better than Risk and even Cluedo, that she always won. As a child Alma's grandmère would ask her riddles, with answers that could come from folklore and mythology and metallurgy, literature and chemistry. It was how she learned to think, to find a connection between D7 and A1.

It was the first type of magic she was acquainted with, but not the last one. 

Alma the Elder did not die from an accident, or sickness, or heartbreak. In Alma's eleventh grade she had a stroke in her sleep and never woke up. She'd fallen asleep in her desk and there were still clutters of papers around her when they found her, all of them puzzles and games for her granddaughter.

The next day was the funeral. It was a hot day, the family farm blooming with wheat and purple bungavilias. She had left the black-clad crowd of mourners when a man she did not recognize found her in the porch, drying her tears and drinking lemonade. He had earrings and a velvet hat black as only velvet hats are. It was under his arm, his head bared in respect.

Alma already had his wallet. She had taken a photo of him in her phone, deduced his age, profession and life story with an accuracy that was usually 87% right, with little margin for errors. She knew, the way she knew how to break down riddles in parts and find codes where there were no clues, that none of her guesses were anything other than what he wanted her to think she knew.

Or maybe anything he wanted her to know he let her know.

"Miss Dray. My condolences. Your grandmother was a brilliant woman of extraordinary talents. She will be sorely missed."

She nodded. Neither of them offered a hand; in their line of interest, dextricity was far too precious. Not something to be done lightly. 

Her English was a pragmatic thing. It stuck in her throat and to the back of her tongue, reigning it in.

"Mr. Bradley, do not make the mistake of believing I am ignorant of why you've come."

His smile was a bright, sure thing. "I never thought you were, Alma."

There was a fresh plot in the family plot where Drays had been buried in for centuries. And in that grave, like in all other graces since 1824, there was a carving, if you cared to look and find the pattern in the marble veins, of an eye.

Alma gulped down the last of her lemonade like it was alcohol and put out her hand to be shaken.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a French proverb meaning 'she/he who lives shall see.'


End file.
